by Rita Herron
“Interestingly enough, I’ve recently learned that Ross Wheeler, son of the prominent Reverend Wheeler, was the product of a sperm donation that originated at this very same research facility.”
Norton turned accusatory eyes toward Grady, then Violet. “How the hell does he know all that?”
Rage darkened Grady’s eyes. “I have no idea. But he should be arrested for interfering with an official investigation.” The sheriff stood and paced, his boots clacking on the hardwood floor. “Maybe he’s our killer. He’s been in every city so far where there was a murder. And he sure seems to know a lot.”
“We should investigate him,” Agent Adams agreed. “I’ll get someone on it right away.”
“Have you talked to this reporter, Miss Baker?” Norton asked. “Is this some kind of ploy to get attention for your hocus-pocus?”
“No. The last thing I want is publicity.” Or to be tied to Ross Wheeler. Could he possibly be related to Darlene and the others?
“That’s right,” Grady said, his voice gruff. “Going public is only going to put Violet in danger.”
Violet hugged herself. She’d seen Ross Wheeler in the crowd at the hospital. Had he been following her? Had he tried to kill her to keep her from finding out the truth? Or could Grady be right—could Bernie Morris be the serial killer?
* * *
“SHIT. DAMN. FUCK.” Doc Farmer slammed the remote control down, his blood pressure boiling. He had to get out of town. Do it now before this whole damn thing blew up in their faces.
He booted up his computer, located the necessary files and trashed them.
Slightly relieved, he phoned the airport in Nashville and booked a one-way flight for two to the Caribbean. First they’d take that vacation Hattie had been babbling about for ages. Yes, he’d get out while the getting was good. While his wife still admired him.
His palms damp, he grabbed his briefcase and started tossing papers in it. His will, insurance forms, the bonds he’d saved for retirement. Then he opened the safe behind his desk, removed the cash he kept stashed inside and stuffed it in one of the pockets. By the time his wife got home, he’d have them ready to go. He’d tell her he’d planned the trip for a while, that he’d wanted to surprise her. It would be like a second honeymoon.
Swiping at his bald spot, he closed the briefcase, then started up the winding staircase to pack suitcases. The doorbell rang midway. He halted, his knees nearly knocking together. It was probably Walt, who must have seen the news report and panicked. God, he didn’t know if he could calm the man or not. He might have to give him an injection. Just like the night Teresa Monroe had died. And then Darlene….
The doorbell rang again, then again. It had to be Monroe. The impatient bastard. Trying to calm his own erratic nerves, Farmer hurried down the steps and opened the door. Instead of Walt, it was Monroe’s son.
Damn. What was the sheriff doing here?
“Evening, Sheriff, what can I do for you?”
Grady strode in, his feet practically pounding the parquet flooring. “I want some answers, and I want the truth.”
Farmer inhaled sharply, reached inside his pocket for an antacid and popped it in his mouth, then led Grady to his office and closed the door. As much as he wanted to throw the man out, this was the sheriff. But if Hattie came home, he didn’t want her to hear their conversation.
“Years ago, you worked with the Black Mountain Research Hospital, right?”
Acid burned his stomach. But he couldn’t very well deny what was public knowledge. “Yes, a while back. What’s this about, Son?”
“My family. The fertility clinic.”
He had obviously seen the news report. That little scum-sucker reporter had just opened a dangerous can of worms. But Farmer wasn’t offering up any confidences and getting himself killed.
“And?”
“Tell me the truth. Was Darlene my father’s child or was she the product of a sperm donor?”
Farmer propped one hand on his aching stomach. “Don’t you think you should ask your father this?”
“This is an official call. I’m asking as a part of an ongoing investigation,” Grady said.
“You know I can’t divulge patient-doctor information.”
“My sister was part of some experiment there, wasn’t she?” Grady snapped, ignoring Farmer’s comment.
“She was a product of a sperm donor. Did my father know?”
Grady was getting way too close to the truth. “You need to ask him,” Farmer said. “As I told you, my medical files are confidential.”
“Did Teresa know what she was getting into?”
“Sheriff—”
Grady grabbed Farmer by the collar, but the door in the foyer slammed, and Farmer jumped aside. “My wife is home now. You should go, Sheriff.”
Grady cursed, told him he’d be back, then left. Farmer wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, gripping his stomach. Then he picked up the phone. He had to warn Monroe before he got out of town.
Then he never wanted to hear from the man again.
* * *
DR. GARDENER, the young doctor who’d replaced Doc Farmer in town, approached with his lab technician, Joe Finley. “We finally meet, Miss Baker.”
Violet nodded, remembering the way he’d watched her at the diner. This man, with his nice green eyes and friendly smile, was handsome enough to have any of the women in town. Why would he be interested in her? The plain Jane, poor country girl…
“I’ve discussed your situation with Special Agent Adams,” Dr. Gardener said. “You need a complete workup, right?”
Violet nodded. “We believe I might be connected to the victims in the Bone Whistler murders.”
“Is it true you have psychic abilities?” Gardener asked.
Violet searched his face for condemnation, but thankfully found only sincere interest, so she nodded.
“It appears that way.”
The lab tech’s eyes bulged as he watched her, unnerving her slightly. Finley was wiry, and appeared nervous as he assembled the supplies to take her blood. The glass vials clattered in his hands as he removed them from the box.
“Well, we’ll find out what you need to know,” the doctor said.
“You’re new in town, aren’t you?” Violet murmured.
“I’ve been here a few months,” he told her. “But it’s been slow getting people to accept me.”
“Laney Longhouse said all the young women speak highly of you.”
“The younger generation is more accepting. The people who’ve lived here for a while still want to see Dr. Farmer. They’re accustomed to his way of practicing medicine.”
“I’m sure they’ll come around,” Violet said, although she, as much as anyone, had borne the brunt of their judgmental attitudes.
“Are you ready?” The lab technician’s voice squeaked slightly. Violet frowned, wondering if he was new to the area, too, then chided herself for looking at everyone with suspicion. It was likely that the killer had medical training, though. A doctor, lab tech, orderly, paramedic…
“Finley volunteers here,” Gardener said. “He’ll take care of you while I check on another patient.”
Violet nodded, then sank into the hard vinyl chair. When she received the results from this test, she’d know for certain if the man she’d thought was her father really was her blood relative. Did her grandmother know the truth? If not, what would this do to her? Or would it really matter? Her grandmother loved her…no matter what.
“Make a fist.” Finley smiled, but Violet felt the hair on her nape bristle when he touched her. His fingers were long, his nails clipped short, she noticed, as he rolled her arm sideways, examining it. “You have thin veins, don’t you?”
She swallowed. “I guess so.”
“Yes, you do.” His lip twitched. “It makes it harder to find a good vein, but don’t worry. I’ll get it the first time.” He patted her arm. “Drawing blood is my specialty. I’ve had lots of practice.”
&n
bsp; She nodded, but stiffened as he reached for the tourniquet. His voice had grown deeper, his eyes intense, as if he derived pleasure in his job. I am the blood taker….
“You know, I feel like we’ve met,” he said in a low voice. He wrapped the tourniquet around her arm and tightened it, his fingers lingering slightly before he released her. The pockmarks on his face were emphasized by the harsh lights.
“I don’t think so.” Although his voice sounded strangely familiar. Low. Grating. Almost singsongy. Like the killer’s.
Or was she imagining things?
He inserted the needle, and her blood began to flow through the tubing. The victims of the Bone Whistler had watched this same scene as they died.
She would be facing the killer soon. Watching him do the same thing to her. But other women were going to die first.
Unless she figured out the killer’s identity.
* * *
“MAY GOD TAKE DOWN that little bastard!”
Ross Wheeler startled at the sound of his father’s fury. He’d prayed that the reverend hadn’t seen the news report, but he’d known that was one prayer that wouldn’t be answered. Half the town had probably viewed it by now. Knowing the way the old biddies gossiped, the other half would know its contents within an hour.
He slid the cabinet door closed to hide his treasures, and locked it tightly. It wouldn’t do now for his father to see what he had collected. No, it wouldn’t do at all.
Another string of expletives scorched the walls as the reverend stormed down the steps toward him, and Ross barely resisted the urge to run and hide. He could go into the woods. Back to his secret place. The place where he had seen Kerry.
And his father…
“Son, did you talk to that son of a bitch reporter?”
Ross shook his head, careful to maintain his obedient look.
The reverend jerked him up so hard, his knee hit the edge of the cabinet. He bit back a yelp. Any reaction would only make his father madder. “Are you lying? You know what the Lord will do to you if you lie to me.”
“I haven’t talked to him, Father.”
“How about that crazy lady?”
Violet Baker. He shook his head adamantly. No, he hadn’t talked to her. But he wanted to. He wanted to do other things to her, too. To find out what she knew about these women dying.
“Then how the hell did he come up with that nonsense? I’m going to sue the living daylights out of him for saying you aren’t mine. That’s a lie. Is he trying to ruin my reputation?”
“I don’t know, Father.”
Beady, angry eyes glared back at him. But Ross managed to maintain his obedient, docile expression. Finally, satisfied with his compliance, his father slung him backward. Ross fell onto the couch, teeming with anger inside.
“I’m calling my lawyer right now,” the reverend said. “There’s no way that weasel is going to get away with telling those lies and maligning my character.”
Ross began to shake as his father climbed the stairs.
He tried so hard to be perfect. But he’d never meet his father’s standards.
And a lawyer wouldn’t do any good with Bernie Morris. Morris was too greedy. Not just for money, but for fame—fame at any cost. Just like Brother Billy Lee.
Just like Ross’s father.
He stroked his sex, safe with his secret for now. But he had other work to do. And it was time to get started.
Then he’d come face-to-face with Violet Baker. If she really was psychic, she might expose his secrets. He couldn’t let that happen….
* * *
BY THE TIME Grady reached his father’s house, he was livid. He’d told himself repeatedly that Walt hadn’t been aware of the sperm donor, but as his mind ticked over all the odd things that had happened, he couldn’t make himself believe it. The awkwardness and hatred between his father and Baker. The argument between Walt and Doc Farmer. The way he’d never mentioned Teresa again after her death. The fact that the night of her accident, the police hadn’t been able to locate him for hours.
If his father had been involved in Darlene’s death, or had known the killer’s identity all these years and hadn’t spoken up, Grady would make him pay. It didn’t matter who her biological father had been.
And now Violet was in danger again because she was trying to help find this crazy killer.
It wasn’t fair. They had all lost so much. Darlene. Violet. Him. And all because of these secrets.
He pushed open the door without even knocking, and barreled in. “Dad?”
His father didn’t answer.
Grady stormed through the kitchen to the workshop, but it was empty. Surprised, he spun around and headed to his father’s office. Walt hadn’t used it in years, but just might be there now. Seconds later, Grady cursed when he found it empty.
He flew up the steps to his father’s bedroom, halting at the sight of the closed door. Was his dad inside, sleeping off another drunk?
Grady didn’t care. He pounded on the door, then charged in. “Dad?”
His father was rummaging through a lower drawer of his bureau. He jerked upright, gripping something in his hand. Grady’s mouth fell open, his heart racing when he recognized the object.
It was a whistle. A whistle made of bone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GRADY STARED AT THE BONE whistle in horror. His father had claimed to have gotten rid of it. He’d lied to Grady.
But he’d kept it all these years…why? Because he thought it might help him find the killer? Or had he kept it as a trophy?
“It’s not what it looks like, Son.”
Grady jerked his head up. His father hadn’t called him son in years. Why now? To make up for the lies? Hell, he was too damn old to fall for it. “No?”
“No.” His father’s sallow face was blanched, his eyes puffy and red. The alcohol was killing him. Or the guilt.
“Then why the hell did you lie to me about keeping it?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a shaky hand over his face and sank onto the bed. The covers were rumpled, the sheet hanging askew. “I guess I thought it was sick of me to have kept it.”
“Sick because it was a trophy?”
His father’s lips compressed into a narrow line. “Is that what you think, Grady? That I killed my own daughter?”
“But she wasn’t your real daughter, was she, Dad?” Anger hardened Grady’s voice. “You found out that Teresa had used a sperm donor and you couldn’t stand it. You were jealous so you killed her. Then one day the truth got to you and you killed Darlene.”
“No…” Walt dropped his head into his hands, rocking back and forth. “No, that’s not the way it happened.”
Grady inhaled, reining in his temper. He had a job to do, and if it meant arresting his own father, he’d damn well do it. For Darlene’s sake. For all the other victims. For Violet.
“What I don’t understand is how you could have been so cruel to me. Why you blamed me and made me live with this guilt all these years.”
“I told you it didn’t happen the way you said. I never laid a hand on your mother or Darlene.”
Tense minutes stretched between them. Anger, distrust and painful memories had created an unbreachable gap. “I wish I could believe you, Dad. But you’ve lied to me before. Why should I accept your word now?”
“Because he is your father.”
Grady snapped his head sideways as Laney Longhorse entered the room from the adjoining bathroom. He watched in utter shock as she went to his father and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The truth must come out now, Walt. It’s time for Grady to know everything.”
* * *
DARKNESS WAS FALLING as Violet let herself inside her father’s house. It would take time for the results of the bloodwork to come back. Although deep down, she already knew the answers.
It all made sense. If she’d been a product of the sperm donor, and she and Darlene shared some genetic abnormality with the other victims, their blood connected
them all. Hopefully, the FBI would retrieve a list of all the recipients of that sperm and be able to locate the other possible victims before the killer struck again.
An eerie quiet enveloped the room, allowing childhood memories to flood back. She struggled to remember the good moments, but the image of her father shoving her into that station wagon always stood at the forefront of her mind. When had Jed Baker discovered she wasn’t biologically his? Had that realization tainted his feelings for her?
And if he wasn’t her father, then who was? Who had donated the sperm? Had the donor discovered the abnormalities in his genes and decided to kill the offspring because they weren’t perfect?
She flipped on the lamp, halting at the sight of a small brown package on the kitchen table. It hadn’t been there when she left.
Suddenly panicking at the realization that someone had been inside the house again, she reached for some kind of weapon to protect herself. A kitchen knife in hand, she listened carefully as she tiptoed toward the den. Empty.
What about the bedrooms?
Inhaling sharply, she held the knife in front of her and slowly padded toward her room, listening for an intruder. The floor squeaked beneath her shoes. A fly buzzed somewhere in the corner. Dust motes floated in the air in front of her.
She peeked inside her bedroom. Nothing. Her grandmother’s room was also empty.
And then her father’s. No one. The faded chenille spread still hung crookedly. The sheer curtains, yellow with age, were in place.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she headed back to the kitchen and picked up the box. It weighed next to nothing. Fearing the worst, she held the package to her ear and listened to make sure there was nothing ticking inside. No sound. Not even a rattle. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with no postmark or return address. “Violet” had been spelled with letters cut from a newspaper. She’d leave the letters in place for the police in case they could trace them. But she had to know what was inside.
